Those who were well-adjusted to their onboard AI reported that, though it undeniably had some thoughts of its own, at a certain point, the human host’s impulsive need to focus on what the copilot was doing faded away. The distinction between AI- and human-generated thoughts, emotions and impulses became irrelevant, in no small part because of the familiarity of what the AI could produce. It wasn’t disturbing to be presented with thoughts that, given enough time, you would have come up with on your own anyhow. 

I didn’t believe any of that. I’d know if someone else’s thoughts were in my head, I told myself.

When I entered the faculty workroom immediately after the class I’d canceled, I saw Sandra, one of the other biology professors, reclining in one of the lounge chairs by a TV. I closed the door gently. Her mouth was moving in sporadic, satisfied grins, and her eyes were darting beneath her closed eyelids. If she had been sleeping, it would have been more difficult to get her attention…and I wished she had been sleeping.

“Copilots’ finally done you in, have they?” Sandra asked, her thick Irish accent as enthusiastic as ever. The emerald green eyes were now open and laser-focused, and there was an amusement about her whole body that was slightly unnerving, like a child who was about to break into a spree of running and jumping.

“You expected it?” I asked.

“We all expect it.”

“So this happens a lot?”

“To Americans? Yes. Sweating, paranoia, avoiding people…”

I looked away from the refrigerator I had just opened, shooting her an accusing glare

“I’m not paranoid,” I said defensively.

“Aye. That’s why you go out of yer’ way to sneak by me, then. Not paranoid at all,” She said. There was a good-natured smile on her face, which I found to be worse than annoying. She was amused by my discomfort, and she didn’t see a problem with that.

I sputtered in frustration, grabbing my club sandwich before realizing it was only 9:30. It took me longer than it should have to complete the thought that it was too early for lunch. I stared at the cluttered shelves inside the refrigerator, but my body simply would not cooperate as I tried to force it through the simple steps of putting back my lunch box and closing the fridge door. Too many thoughts were trying to fit through too small a space, and so they all just halted where they were.

My lunch box left my hand, and the fridge door seemed to close on its own. Sandra was standing where it had been, wild eyes still locked forward, but now her smile was all empathy, rather than that of good-natured teasing.

“Here. You sit down. You need it more than I do,” She said, taking my hand and guiding me to the recliner she had been using. Reluctantly, I sat. She pointed at the buttons on the right side of the recliner, indicating that I should use them to lean the seat back. I gestured ‘no,’ but she pressed the button to prop up my legs anyhow, shaking her head in amusement.

“Can I show you something?” She said quietly. For a moment, I wondered if she was coming on to me, before realizing how inappropriate that thought was. By the time I regained my bearings, she had strided over to the screen opposite the chair.

“Where’s the…ah, here we go,” Sandra grunted, plugging in the screen’s power cable, then returning to my side of the room, kneeling beside the chair. In my periphery, I could see there was an almost maniacal excitement on her face. She pointed dramatically at the screen with her index finger, and the display simultaneously lit up with a shimmering image of a mountainscape, complete with ocean waves lapping at a golden beach at its base. 

The image was wrong in a few ways: the seafoam was far more visible than its real counterpart would be at this scale, there were no shadows, and the perspective wasn’t consistent. Still, it was undeniably beautiful and relaxing.

“AI art?” I said, smiling a little at the calming scene.

“Yeah yeah,” Sandra said in a clipped tone, pointing at the screen again, as if to tell me to shut up.

Something in the picture changed, but I couldn’t immediately tell what. As I stared, I saw a few subtle alterations: colors were gently changing brightness and hue, edges of the sky almost seemed to haze, and both the mountain peaks and lapping waves gave impressions of pushing and retreating. All of it was like looking at a painting where the eyes seem to follow you.

“That’s…interesting,” I said, tilting my head as my feeling of odd curiosity began to build.

“Just wait! Wait, look, here comes the good part,” Sandra said, bouncing a little.

The image seemed to freeze, though most of my brain was still convinced it hadn’t moved at all. I squinted, scanning the image millimeter by millimeter, looking for “the good part,” but it was all the same.

Except…no. Every time I looked back at a spot I had just passed over, it had changed. The golden sands took on a metallic sheen as they grayed. Instinctively, I perused the whole image, but it was still the mountainscape I had seen before, and when I tried to go back to spots where I was sure the image had been something else before, I couldn’t find any of them, as the image seemed to track my eyes and change before I reached it. My eyes felt like they were lost in a dark forest.

“Did that…?” I asked. Sandra beamed. Her childlike display of almost perverse joy was just as unnerving as the image.

The transformation became more swift. Between blinks, the mountain crags became spotless glass. The changes seemed to spread out like ripples everywhere I set my eyes, but when I tried to follow the outer edges of those ripples, they accelerated away from me.

“Most of the time, we’re the ones observing the art. But what if…” Sandra bit her lower lip, pausing for effect, “The art observed you back?”

“That’s…terrifying,” I said quietly, trying to hide my sense of awe at what I was witnessing.

“My idea,” She replied proudly. Something in her voice hinted that she knew I wasn’t completely able to resist the art’s allure.

I couldn’t help analyzing the image, compulsively trying to pick apart its secrets. Did the AI track the person’s eyes? No, that couldn’t be, I told myself, it was just an image. Did Sandra make it just for me, somehow knowing where exactly I’d look?

Or - and the thought made me shudder - were there other changes happening as I focused that I merely didn’t see? Was the image somehow guiding me to the places it wanted me to look, while fooling me into thinking I wasn’t being led along like a cat chasing a dot from a laser pointer?

“Been workin’ on this fer…a year now? AI teaches my classes, and I can do something a bit more stimulating,” Sandra said, gesturing vaguely to her still-transforming image.

I wanted to ignore the double entendre. Either she wasn't aware of it, or she thought nothing of dropping it into conversation so casually. But after chiding Pete for a related indiscretion, it wouldn't immediately leave the forefront of my mind.

"You always do art while your other half teaches, or do you ever do anything a bit more…stimulating, as you say?" I asked, trying to keep the tone right on the edge between innocence and suggestion.

"Ah, nothing so brash as what you're thinking, not in public, anyhow" She said. I felt my cheeks flush bright red.

"I didn't-"

"Ah, yes ya did. We all think it. Most of us just have to limit chasin’ those thoughts fer the proper time, else we get too hot and bothered when we should be focusin’.”

If she noticed my discomfort, it didn’t faze her.

“Health class basics, ya know?” She straightened up her posture and lowered her voice to an authoritative baritone, “Mind’s in the gutter, hand’s in the rutter.”

“They teach that to kids?” I recoiled.

“Teenagers, bloke. If they’re not imaginin’ a virtual brothel, they’re wishin’ their one-way could do their homework,” She said. I couldn’t disagree with the statement.

“Still…” I said, somewhat deflated, “Grade school seems too early to be learning things like that.”

The look she gave me was almost patronizing, like I was a child who said something hilariously ignorant. The words she said next were full of pity.

“Ya keep someone from talkin’ about somethin’, it just makes them want to see what all the fuss is about. Ya make it routine, ya get better at it, free up the mind to think of other things,” She said, her pause not as dramatic this time, “Which is good, ‘cause the modern mind can do a lot more than it used to. Takes a good imagination to find out how much more.”

******

Fritz was a game that only humans could come up with, and only computers could actually keep track of. Fans of the game called it a cross between dodgeball and Conway’s Game of Life, combining all the mundane strategy of building a flowchart with the visceral thrill of throwing objects at other people.

On its surface, it was simple. You were linked with up to 8 specific players (usually called their “squid” by players), who themselves were also linked with 8 players, and so on. When you were active in the game, you had to keep just enough “balls” to stay active. More than six, and you “exploded,” randomly scattering all your “balls” in the direction of every player “around” you. Less than three, and you lost the ability to “throw” them. Either way, you would become inactive, and couldn’t be active again until you once again had at least three “balls” in your possession. Simple to explain, but computers allowed it to be played at blinding speed that was overwhelming to observe.

It was more popular to play than it was to watch, but there were some dedicated spectators, especially at universities.

A crowd of about thirty had gathered in the commons. The nine who were playing Fritz were distinct enough, as they were the only ones in the circle of reclining chairs. The other twenty or so were gathered in groups around specific gamers, presumably their friends.

“Two, two, two!” One of the onlookers shouted to his friend. I recognized the seated player and his friend from one of my Biology classes: Daniel and Mahab, respectively. I looked to the big projector screen at the front of the room, finding his image next to an in-game avatar. Daniel had five balls lit up under the avatar, as did the second opponent in his squid. If Daniel lobbed two of his now, he’d be sitting at a solid minimum, and he’d close off one avenue of attack for at least a little while. Daniel wasn’t quick enough; opponent 2 pulled the intended move instead. 

“Bugger,” Daniel said through gritted teeth, “That one must have put all his points into throw strength.” It wasn’t a total loss; by blind luck, four of Daniel’s balls ejected towards opponent 2 anyhow, bringing them down with him. I didn’t hear any yelps of shock or groans of frustration, so whoever opponent 2 was, they either weren’t in the room, or were laying low.

“Oh hey, Professor,” Mahab said. I hadn’t realized I’d been mindlessly strolling toward the din of students until he called out. Daniel looked over as well, his lock-eyed expression loosening briefly as he waved, then fell back into complete focus.

“Mahab,” I said, nodding.

“Come to see the competition across the pond?” Mahab asked. There were some assumptions to the question, namely that I played the game myself.

“Ah. Nah. I’m too old to get into this. Glimpse it from time to time, though.”

Mahab shrugged, turning his attention to the projector screen. Daniel would have been focusing on his eight-person squid, as when he was inactive, he’d only be able to see the eight linked to him, and no further beyond. Mahab could always see several links further on the big screen at the front of the commons, but he probably wouldn’t be able to warn Daniel of incoming balls any faster than Daniel himself would see it.

“This one’s live, I take it?” I said. He nodded, and I was glad that I was able to assume one of the basic rule sets correctly.

“Yep! 50 milliseconds,” Mahab said. I felt good for knowing what that one meant, too; 50 milliseconds was the minimum time a player had to wait between one throw and another.

“Big leagues,” I said.

“Nah, the pros go five milliseconds or less. Crazy shit; you have to be one-eighty with your AI to be that fast."

"One-eighty?"

So I really didn't know the more nuanced details of the game. That was a feeling of old age I didn't need, I told myself. Mahab, still staring at the large screen, didn't notice my self-pity.

“Hmm…one-eighty. It’s…you and your AI look in different directions. You see what your AI doesn’t, and vice versa. One hundred eighty degrees, right?” Mahab said. I nodded, even though it didn’t make complete sense to me, while I tried to find the right words to express my confusion.

“I thought the copilot AI is supposed to be…uh…you,” I said, scratching my head.

“Well,” Mahab said, also scratching his head, “It is, but it’s…”

Daniel made a startled noise. Even as ignorant as I was to the game, I could instantly see the problem: three players had each thrown a ball to him at the same time, reactivating him. Six of the active players in his squid had six balls each, and with only three in his possession, he was the obvious target for all of them. Almost instinctively, he threw a ball, falling below his minimum and deactivating himself.  Almost immediately, four more balls careened his way, reactivating him, and he sprang into action. Quickly spotting three players who still had five balls, he threw all twelve of the excess balls thrown to him as soon as he caught them, causing his three targets to go bust. Two of the players stayed deactivated as they received two more from Daniel, and only one of his targets received the extra ball they needed to reactivate. By a stroke of luck, Daniel only picked up two more from the chain of explosions.

“Gobsmacked, Dan!” Mahab exclaimed, shaking his friend by the shoulder. Mahab watched as one of the explosions Daniel had caused triggered a cascade, causing four players in a one-stranded chain to explode. Daniel cracked the slightest smile, sparing only the tiniest bit of thought for celebrating in the real.

On the big screen, it was impressive, but in the way a good light show might be. It felt more like watching a representation of moving charges on a circuit board than watching a game. The thought that someone was keeping track of all these tiny lights and avatars, predicting what their opponents would do to them and each other, was intriguing, but I’d hesitate to say it looked like “fun.”

“You play, too?” I asked Mahab.

“Huh?” He did a double-take as he tried to rewind what I’d asked, “Oh…yes, yes, but turn-based. Never live, never 3D, and definitely never contact.”

The meanings of “live” and “turn-based” seemed self-evident. In a live game, players could throw whenever and at whoever they wanted, while turn-based games gave players designated times to throw.

“3D? Contact?” I asked.

“Yes…?” Mahab said, like the meaning of the terms should also be self-evident.

“As in…you feel the balls hit you?”

“Well, not if you’re fast enough to catch it.”

“And they can come from anywhere?”

Apparently I looked ridiculous, because Mahab now seemed amused. I had assumed Fritz was played on a 2D space, like Go or Chess, and that the player saw the “game board” simulated for them by their copilot AIs. It wasn’t like that. They were in the game.

Worse, from the way Mahab was handling me with kid gloves, it seemed everyone already knew this. This college kid, who looked more like a drifter than a scholar, was doing his best to gently lift me into his world…the one where everyone else already lived. I couldn’t help but feel helpless and undignified.

“It’s…really easier to understand if you see it for yourself. There’s as many rule variations as there are players. I could show you a turn-based beginners’ league, if you want?” Mahab said. He was clearly beginning to feel awkward around me, but was making a valiant effort not to make me feel like a fossil.

“Thanks, but I’ll just watch,” I said. Again, Mahab shrugged, then went back to watching the large screen, giving hints to Daniel, whooping, and cringing as opponents fell under barrages of incoming balls. Within fifteen seconds, I was fairly sure that I was outside Mahab’s realm of active attention.

He couldn't have known the way he'd just upended my thoughts on the whole experience, with the game and otherwise. What could be seen and heard was a whole other realm from what could be felt. Up until a few moments ago, I had thought that their onboard AI only let them experience Fritz like a video game: engrossing, but with two degrees of separation. They’d see the game from a distance, then control their player character to throw, catch, strategize and win. Win or lose, it’d be vicarious.

But it wasn’t like that at all. They really were in their AI’s world when they played Fritz.

And as I studied Daniel some more, I realized that his eyes would periodically unlock. He’d quickly study the large screen, taking in the status of those outside his “squid”, then dive back into the game space, only rarely receiving surprise shots while he was out.

There were too many details on the large screen to take in at once. No human alive could even be aware of almost 4000 variables at once, much less understand them and process them. Without AI to help him parse the information, he couldn’t have analyzed it and kept playing simultaneously. So in a way, the AI was in his world, too. The two changed the realms they operated in as they saw fit.

There was no clear separation of AI and human “worlds,” no space where one operated that the other could not reach. It was a thing I had known; I’d watched humans disappear into digital worlds and AIs control human bodies for three months now. But it took a game to make me realize how inseparable humans now were from their copilots. Who would ever go back to being “only human,” when they could do this?

As various cheers, groans, instructions and laughs rose from the crowd, it dawned on me that even watching the game play out on the large screen was a completely different experience with a copilot AI. They spoke so quickly amongst each other, their collective attention never seeming to linger on any play for more than a split second. With game conditions changing so rapidly, spectators talking about the game with each other would need an AI to make sure they were talking about the same thing, if they wanted to go play-by-play.

I felt despair. These kids were running mental circles around me, and they were doing it for fun. They knew intimately about things I couldn’t even see.

Mahab had known how much he'd confounded me, I decided. If he could keep up with this infinitely unfolding game and the people playing it, then understanding my ancient, inferior mind would have been trivial. 

I couldn’t recall having unfolded the screen on my AV glove, but when I looked down, my finger was hovering over an on-screen button that said “two-way.” The urge to rip the thing off my hand and toss it through a nearby window was strong, but I held off, not wanting to be caught having a mental breakdown on camera, or by the students who were giving me concerned glances as they passed.

I was a professor. I wanted to know things. The key to exponential knowledge was literally in my hand - on my hand, same thing - but I didn't share the square footage of my brain with anything.

I’d known several grad students of English who would’ve pointed out that “didn’t” was a self-inflicted handicap.

I was silent as I turned and headed out the commons’ entrance, into the rainy afternoon.